I unfolded it.
It was written in pencil, in the big, wobbly handwriting of a little kid. Some of the letters were backward. It took me a long time to read it, sounding out each word like I was eight again.
Dear Hannah,
I am sorry I pushed you. I did not mean it. I wanted you to go hire. My mom says you cant see now. I am going to be a docter and fix your eyes. I promise. I am sorry. I am so sorry.
From Niye.
P.S. You can call me Frankenstien if you want.
I sat in his chair and held that piece of paper and didn’t move for a very long time.
He’d written it at eight years old.
He’d never sent it.
And he’d kept it. Through the move. Through school. Through medical school. Through twenty years of marriage. In the bottom drawer, under everything else, where I’d never find it.
